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Parenting can be grand

My grandparents’ house is an art gallery showcasing our childhood. We always go in through the back door, and right through the house the walls are adorned with the artwork, poetry and photos we have produced over the years. The earliest are by the back door: faded sheets of sugar paper with a squiggle of crayon or paint. In my nan’s scrawl underneath is a name, age and date. Each one carries a memory.

My grandfather recently went into full-time care. He had a fall and a minor bleed on the brain. Now when I visit him the memories I have are not memories...

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